Four floors up

in the summer dusk

of Brooklyn,

I followed the smile,

the good smile

that doesn’t tell,

as I unbuttoned her blouse,

she standing still for it

happy, languid as evening,

my hands holding her breasts,

the tip of her tongue

traveling along my neck,

her hand falling

like an echo to mine,

leading me like a beginner

to the bed, the soft

smile and gradually

the complete confidence

of her nakedness,  

pausing to turn the record player on,

settling against me

with the softness

and inevitability of summer night

as an old black man

beat out a memory,

warning us away

from the dangers of love.